


Do not do shotskis with Stevie. Seriously. Don't.

by reymanova



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: IM JUST DOING MY BEST HERE, M/M, drunk david calls for ABSOLUTE FLUFFERY, im really bad at titling things, im very tired and mildly caffeinated, ive never actually been drunk but we're here anyway dont worry about it kids, stevie is only mentioned in passing in this smh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:50:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22251958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reymanova/pseuds/reymanova
Summary: Much to Patrick's chagrin, a drunk David attempts to go through his entire nighttime skincare routine despite his addled state. It doesn’t go well.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 6
Kudos: 122





	Do not do shotskis with Stevie. Seriously. Don't.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this very quickly while being only about 65% awake and I'm not even sure this whole thing is even in the same tense, BUT after reading Drunk On You by MadAlien I was like "I must write drunk!David and I must do it NOW", so here we are. 
> 
> MadAlien's fic is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235218

Patrick was buzzed. Not drunk, not even tipsy, just pleasantly buzzed. Enough so that he tipped their frankly mediocre Uber driver far more than was strictly necessary, but not so much that he started handing out his credit cards and debit cards and the Starbucks gift card that he forgot he had to strangers on the street.

David, on the other hand, was drunk. Not I’m-an-alcoholic-and-I-black-out-for-weeks-at-a-time drunk, not plastered, probably not even sloshed, but still, properly drunk. Sufficiently more belligerent than usual, and far more likely to stumble on the way out of the bar while waxing poetic about wanting to see Patrick in a leather jacket, and then blame his unsteadiness on Gwyneth Paltrow for some reason, because it couldn’t possibly be _his_ fault that he tripped. 

It is for this reason that Patrick found himself standing in the doorway of his bathroom at three am, watching as a wobbly, loose, and stubborn-as-all-hell David attempted to do his entire nighttime skin routine while simultaneously having the general awareness of a goldfish. The man in question fumbled with opening the cap of a small, round container that held some sort of cream? Gel? In all honestly, Patrick thought, it kind of looked like hummus.

“What even is that?”

“It’s undereye cream, Patrick, so that I don’t look like a rabid raccoon, or like, Lindsay Lohan after doing too much coke on Adam Sandler’s yacht.”

Patrick grinned, crossing his arms. “If it’s undereye cream, why are you putting it on your cheeks, David?”

David made a valiant attempt to focus on his reflection in the mirror, squinting. After a moment, he realized that he was, indeed, putting it on his cheeks. “Technically, my cheeks are… under my eyes.”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t make fun of me, I don’t deserve this.”

“Oh, but you do. I told you doing shotskis with Stevie was a bad idea.”

“She made me feel left out because I’d never done them before! It’s not fault that in my past life I did not travel in circles that partook in that particular plebeian abomination of a drinking method.”

Patrick feigned offense, taking a step closer. “So the rest of us are plebs now, huh?” 

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I, though?”

David rolled his eyes. “Okay, maybe you’re plebs, but you’re a hot pleb. And it has recently been brought to my detention — no, attention, that apparently rich people unilaterally suck anyway, so.”

“I admire your optimistic attempt to use as many Moira Rose-level vocabulary words as possible, David, but I’m not convinced you’re actually using all of them right.” 

“Okay, rude.”

Patrick grinned, and wrapped his arms around David’s midsection from behind.

“How am I supposed to do my skincare routine when you’re doing that?”

Patrick hummed into the back of David’s shoulder. “Mm, I guess you can’t. Maybe we should just go to bed.”

“Um, no. I can’t just _skip_ my nightly skincare routine, just like Hillary can’t just skip over visiting Michigan if she wants to win the presidency.”

“David, and I mean this in the kindest way possible, but how on Earth do you know that much about Hillary Clinton’s failed political strategy?”

“Chelsea Clinton was on Oprah.”

“Ah.” There’s a comfortable pause. Then — “David, are you _sure_ you’re in a state to be doing your full nighttime skincare routine right now?”

“Um, yes. Why?”

“Because you just put the same moisturizer on three times in a row.”

David froze, and Patrick suppressed a smirk. “…Alcohol is dehydrating. I’m just covering my bases.”

“Uh huh.”

Suddenly, David wriggled out of Patrick’s grip and turned to face him, indignant. “Fine, if you think you know better, you do it.”

“What?”

David crossed his arms like a petulant child. “I’m not going to bed until my skincare routine is done, but _apparently_ I’m too drinkity drunk to do it myself. So someone has to do it.”

“The fact that you just used the phrase ‘drinkity drunk’ only reinforces my stance on your level of inebriation.”

“Someone’s gotta do it, Patrick.”

“Ugh, fine.” Patrick surveyed the various products scattered across the counter. “What’s next?” As David directed him to another — another! — undereye cream, he thought about the last time he had done this, in the early days of their relationship. That time, he had gotten lots of kisses as a reward for his esteemed work. Maybe he’d get lucky again this time. 

————

Patrick was finally drifting off to sleep when he was startled awake by David’s panicked voice: “Wait, did I put on my moisturizer?”

Patrick sighed. “Three times, David. You put it on three times.”

“Oh.” There was a pause, then some rustling. The next thing Patrick knew, David’s indecently large eyes were just inches away, staring at him in the dark. “I love you.”

This close, Patrick could smell the stupid rose water spray that David insisted that he spray in a particular pattern for “most effective application”. Between that and the toothpaste, the smell of alcohol on David’s breath was just an afterthought, like a cologne marketed as having “hints of shotski”. Patrick chuckled to himself at the thought, and reached out to kiss David on the forehead. “I love you.”


End file.
